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Trevor loved it。 It was where he discovered that he could draw even if Daddy couldn't。
Momma talked to a real estate agent in town and figured out that they could afford to rent one of the dilapidated farmhouses for a month。 By that time； she said； she would find a job in Missing Mile and Daddy would be drawing。 Sure enough； a few days after they moved their things into the house； a dress shop hired Momma as a salesgirl。 The job was no fun…she couldn't wear jeans to work； which left her with a choice of one Indian…print skirt and blouse or one patchwork dress…but she ate lunch at the diner in town and sometimes stopped for coffee after her shift。 Soon she met some of the kids they'd seen going into the record store； and others like them。
If she could drive to Raleigh or Chapel Hill； they told Momma； she could make good money modeling for university art classes。 Momma talked to Kinsey at the garage； who let her set up a payment plan。 A week later the Rambler had a brand…new engine； and Momma quit the dress shop and started driving to Raleigh several times a week。
Daddy had his things set up in a tiny fourth bedroom at the back of the house； his untidy jumble of inks and brushes and his drawing table； the one piece of furniture they had brought from Austin。 He went in there and shut the door every morning after Momma left； and he stayed in there most of the day。 Trevor had no idea whether he was drawing or not。
But Trevor was。 He had found an old sketchbook of Daddy's when Momma unpacked the car。 Most of the pages had been torn out； but there were still a few blank sheets left。 Trevor usually took Didi outside to play in the daytime…Momma had assured him that the Devil's Tramping Ground was more than forty miles away； so he didn't have to worry about accidentally ing upon the pacing； muttering demon。
When Didi was napping…something he seemed to do more and more often these days…Trevor wandered through the house； looking at the bare floorboards and the water…stained walls； wondering if anyone had ever loved this house。 One afternoon he found himself in the dim； shabby kitchen； perched on one of the rickety chairs that had e with the house； a felt…tip pen in his hand； the sketchbook on the table before him。 He had no idea what he was going to draw。 He had hardly ever thought about drawing before； that was what Daddy did。 Trevor could remember scribbling with crayons on cheap newsprint when he was Didi's age； making great round heads with stick arms and legs ing straight out of them； as small children do。 This circle with five dots in it is Momma； this one is Daddy； that one's me。 But he hadn't drawn for at least a year…not since Daddy stopped。
Daddy had told him once that the trick was not to think about it； not in your sketchbook anyway。 You just had to find the path between your hand and your heart and your brain and see what came out。 Trevor uncapped the pen and put its tip against the unblemished （though slightly yellowed） page of the sketchbook。 The ink began to bleed into the paper； making a small spreading dot； a tiny black sun in a pale void。 Then； slowly； Trevor's hand began to move。
He soon discovered he was drawing Skeletal Sammy； a character from Daddy's ic book； Birdland。 Sammy was all straight lines and sharp points： easy to draw。 The half…leering； half…desperate face； the long black coat that hung on Sammy's shoulders like a pair of broken wings； the spidery hands and the long thin legs and the exaggerated bulge of Sammy's kneecaps beneath his black stovepipe pants…all began to take shape。
Trevor sat back and looked at the drawing。 It was nowhere near as good as Daddy's Sammy； of course； the lines weren't straight； the black inking was more like scribbling。 But it was no circle with five dots； either。 It was immediately recognizable as Skeletal Sammy。
Daddy recognized it as soon as he walked into the kitchen。
He leaned over Trevor's shoulder for several moments looking at the drawing。 One hand rested lightly on Trev's back； the other tapped the table nervously； fingers as long and thin as Sammy's； faint lavender veins visible beneath the pale skin； silver wedding ring too loose on the third finger。 For a moment Trevor feared Daddy might snatch the drawing； the whole sketchbook； he felt as if he had been caught doing something wrong。
But Daddy only kissed the top of Trevor's head。 〃You draw a mean junkie； kiddo；〃 he whispered into Trevor's ginger hair。 And he was gone from the kitchen silently； like a ghost； without getting the beer or glass of water or whatever he had e for； leaving his elder son half elated and half dreadfully； mysteriously ashamed。
The carefully drawn fingers of Sammy's left hand were blurring。 A drop of moisture on the page； making the ink bleed and furl。 Trevor touched the wetness； then put his finger to his lips。 Salty。 A tear。
Daddy's； or his own？
The worst thing happened the following week。 It turned out Daddy had been drawing in his cramped little studio。 Had finally finished a story； only a page long； and sent it off to one of his papers。 Trevor couldn't remember if it was the Barb or the Freep or maybe one of the others…he got them mixed up sometimes。
The paper rejected the story。 Daddy read the letter aloud in a hollow； mocking voice。 It had been a difficult decision； the editor said； considering his reputation and the selling power of his name。 However； he simply didn't feel the story approached the quality of Daddy's previous work； and he thought publishing it would be bad both for the paper and for Daddy's career。
It was the kindest way the editor could find to say This ic is a piece of shit。
The next day； Daddy walked into town and called the publisher of Birdland。 The stories for the fourth issue were already nearly a year overdue。 Daddy told the publisher there would be no more stories； not now； not ever。 Then he hung up the pay phone and walked a mile across town to the liquor store。 By the time he got home； he had already cracked the seal on a gallon jug of bourbon。
Momma had begun staying later and later in the city after her modeling jobs…having drinks with some of the other models one night； going to someone's apartment to get stoned the next。 Daddy didn't like that； had even refused to smoke the joint she brought him as a present from her friends。 She said they wanted to meet him and the kids； but Daddy told her not to invite them out。
Trevor had gone into Raleigh with Momma one day。 He brought his sketchbook and sat in a corner of the big airy studio that smelled of paint thinner and charcoal dust。 Momma stood gracefully naked on a wooden podium at the front of the room； joking with the students when she took her breaks。 Some of them laughed at him； bent over his sketchbook so quiet and serious。 Their laughter faltered when they saw the likenesses he had produced of them during the class period： the stringy…haired girl whose granny glasses pinched her beaky nose like some torture device made of wire； the droopy…eyed boy whose patchy beard grew straight down into the collar of his black turtleneck because he had no chin。
But on this day Trevor had stayed home。 Daddy sat in